


The Long Walk Home

by curiosa



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Gen, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-23
Updated: 2012-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-12 17:57:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/494072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/curiosa/pseuds/curiosa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gerard just tosses him out of the house, leaving Stiles to walk home and think about everything.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Long Walk Home

He runs through the first street.

Feet hitting the cement sidewalk with sharp slaps until he can’t see the Argent’s house any longer, can’t feel it looming behind his back. They’d shoved him out the door, Gerard’s eyes boring holes into him, the psychopath watching him leave from behind the drape of the thick curtains, fingers curled around the sides like some pseudo concerned neighbour keeping an eye on his street.

He slows down when he knows he’s out of sight, adrenaline leaving him as he sinks to the floor, shaken, ignoring the wet dew of the street that soaks into his shorts as his blood pumps through him, a pulsing reminder to every single swollen, bruised and cut inch of skin that he’s an idiot, such an idiot, because god, it hurts, it hurts so badly, like just blinking sends shockwaves of pain down deep into the bones of him, and it’s funny, he thinks, how still having a heartbeat can prove to cause such a physical pain throughout every inch of him.

It’s warm outside, muggy, the kind of still, heavy air that seeps everything out of you and makes you feel like you’re swimming it’s that thick, leaving behind nothing but sweat soaked and tired skin, and yet Stiles still finds himself shivering; tiny quakes that take over his fingers and roll up through his arms, spreading across and out through his chest. There’s the taste of metal behind his teeth and he lifts a shaking hand up to the corner of his mouth to wipe some of the blood away, remembering the cold, bored look Gerard had thrown him as he wiped his blood soaked knuckles away on his shirt, as if it was entirely Stiles’ fault, or maybe Scott’s, Stiles was just the human who’d stupidly put himself in to the middle of everything, completely unwarranted as far as Gerard was concerned. Stiles had watched curled up on the floor, his tongue gingerly probing his mouth to make sure he still had all his own teeth, as his blood smeared the cotton on the hem of Gerard’s shirt, turning it into a rusty brown stain as it dried and Gerard tried to control his breathing.

That’s squarely something he doesn’t want to think about. Putting it away in the box inside his head where the thoughts he doesn’t want to come across go, like the times he’s made his Dad’s face fill with unbearable disappointment, moments that recently seem to keep adding up, along with the way his Mom had held his hand and said his name that last time, hours before she died, leaving the two of them to try and carry on without her.

What he really wants, no, needs to do, is go home, curl up in bed and forget that this entire world he’s immersed himself into exists.

He lives about a half hour away from the Argent’s, five minutes, if that, in a car and with no traffic, but his jeep is probably still back at the school, assuming his Dad hasn’t had it impounded for evidence; which is a whole other matter in itself, one that right now he doesn’t want to even touch upon. His phone is god knows where too, leaving Stiles with no phone, no money (he doesn’t even have pockets) and no form of transportation but his own two feet to walk home on.

It’s hard to pull his body up, arms gripping the hedge that’s right behind him, the night air filled with some sweet scent that’s cloying in the heat, sickly, he takes in a great gulp of it as he straightens, one rushed full, dizzying breath that makes him want to throw up. Great, fantastic. He closes his eyes, breathing in softly; small, even breaths through his nose and then out through his mouth, just enough until his head stops spinning and the impulse to gag leaves him.

After a couple of minutes he feels better and then there’s nothing to do but start walking.

It’s funny how much time it takes just to walk the first few streets, how long he gets to spend with the destructive thoughts in his head. The first ten minutes he spends re-playing everything in his mind, the moment the guy had grabbed him on the field, how in the commotion he hadn’t even realised what was going on until he’d been thrown into the back of a van, just trustingly believing that some guy was pulling him off the field as everyone got pushed and pulled through the mass of fans and players trying to make sense of the darkness and screams all around them.

It’s not even like he can begin to make sense of it, he’s just some kid that knocks about with another kid who happens to be a werewolf, and it’d been fine at first, sort of, the whole running around and feeling like he was helping, but lately it’s been nothing but trouble, and not just trouble but painful. He got his Dad fired and in happenstance of practically the whole department being brutally killed, re-hired. Scott’s grades are slipping to a dangerous low, people he’s known have died, and the truth is it’s not just some silly investigative work anymore; it’s ruining his life and everyone that surrounds him.

He turns the corner just as a car comes careening past, blasting the horn at him a couple of times in a such a way that Stiles ends up throwing himself into the nearest object, a rose thorn bush that snags at his shirt as he tries to untangle himself, back to shaking. The car blurs past, already half way down the road, outstretched arms waving at him as cheers filter down the street behind it; fans of the game, he supposes, he is still wearing his lacrosse shirt after all and despite everything that’s happened Beacon Hills did still win the game, even if Stiles didn’t get to stay to celebrate it.

His heart’s set to racing through the last few streets as he tries his best to calm himself down, jumping even at his own shadow, feeling fidgety, having believed for just a second that Gerard was playing tricks with him, sending a couple of lackey’s to follow him and finish him off, leave behind a nice little surprise for Scott to find tomorrow like he threatened.

But the truth of it is that Stiles isn’t even that important. He’s not a threat, not even a blip on the Argent’s radar, just some kid who thought he could keep running with wolves and not get thrown to the side like road kill in the midst of it. So so so stupid of him. He has no hope keeping up with the likes of Scott or Derek, what was he even thinking? He’s too human for all of this, too much soft skin and breakable bones and family members that would fall apart without him, and his Dad’s bound to be going spare by now, probably pacing around the house, watching the driveway just in case, waiting by the phone in desperation.

God, what must his Dad be thinking?

He can see his house now at the end of the street, the only one where the lights are on in every single room, his Dad’s car parked half way on the drive and half way on the road still, like he couldn’t even be bothered with parking, just wanting to check the house in case Stiles was waiting.

He can see someone moving around in his room and he hopes to god that it’s just his Dad because he can’t deal with anyone else right now, doesn’t want to. He just wants to be the normal human being that he is, bruised and broken, hiding away under his blankets in the dark until his skin doesn’t feel quite so stretched tight and thin, maybe try and sleep and forget everything.

It takes him just five steps to get to his front door, finding it already waiting open for him.


End file.
